Monday, June 25

Forever in Blue Jean Shorts

On our last episode of "Ryan is Really Stupid, and when I say really I mean REALLY," I found myself about to spend an evening with two young and attractive fashion students while clad in denim from hip to slightly below my knee.

So there I am trying to act cool like everyone knows wearing jean shorts is the hip thing to do and it's not at all embarrassing enough that I would write a blog about the experience one day, when Rebecca (the girl I had previously charmed) lays this on me.

"A couple more of my friends said they wanted to come along to the movie."

Awesome! Four College girls! Even without the severe fashion faux pas dangling from my waist, this situation would normally be enough to send me into a mental tail spin with flames of anxiety bursting forth from my fuselage. Somehow I managed to ignore the voice in my head saying "PUNCH OUT MAVERICK!" and convince myself that since I was here I might as well stick it out.

Now in all my excitement and horror I hadn't bothered to find out what movie we were going to see. When they told me we were going to see "The Break Up" I could hardly contain my excitement and bile. What an awesome girls night out this would be for us ladies. But it turns out the movie is better than I thought it would be. Perhaps there is hope for this night after all! We sat in the first row because the theater was packed, so I spent most of the film hoping my nose hairs weren't visible in the dim glow of the projector's light as I leaned my head back.

After the movie we walked back to this hotel where they all live, and I was told I had to wait in the lobby while they all went up stairs to "do girl things." I can only assume this meant change their tampons and talk about how much of a weirdo I am. I spent approximately 15 minutes talking to a bellhop named Felix before the ladies came back down. One of them was now missing. I was told she was tired, but I'm pretty sure it was because she was allergic to Wranglers.

The four of us walked around a bit before finding a diner. I was pretty starving form all the staving off of multiple panic attacks, but rather than immediately blurt out to the waiter, "I'll have belgian waffles my good man, and stack them as high as the eye of a mountain goat," I let the gals order first. Thankfully they all ordered meals, so I was able to get my goat's eye waffles, which are not to be confused with goatse waffles. Those taste like ass.

During the meal I thought I was highly entertaining. Not only did I razzle them, but I also dazzled them to the max. I had them laughing frequently and was enjoying myself until I used a local cultural saying which elicited a, "Oh my god you sound like one of the Gotti kids!!" from one of the girls who I will now refer to as Bitchface McHugevag.

I pay for the meal because I'm a gentleman, and it was only 21 bucks. We all walk back to the hotel, and I am wondering what in the world is going to happen now. hey all decide to call it a night. Bitchface McHugevag and the other friend head back up to their stalls, and I am left alone outside with Rebecca.

You'd think I would be in good shape because her friends seemed to like me and none of them once called me "Mean Jean Okerlund." As I stood there with her, a Tsunami of nervousness and distress came barreling down 8th Avenue at me. Being that I am neither Jet Li or Petra Nemcova, I get swept up in it. My hands feel like they are beginning to shake. My voice begins to crack when I talk. I notice that what has been merely a semi-erection all night long is starting to mature into a full on boner. I panic and half-scream out, "That was fun we should all do it again some time HAHA AHA HA." I then boldly lean in and plant one on her lips.

Okay, "plant one" isn't appropriate to use here. I pecked her on the lips and then turned around and ran across the street as fast as I could because I am 12 years old.

And that was the last I ever saw of the quartet of fashion students. It was not my finest moment, but at least I learned a valuable lesson. Do not dress like a bull dyke on a date.

7 comments:

v said...

See bro, that wasn't so bad. I mean, as bad as it could have been. I guess the running after the peck wasn't the best of ideas, though I'm going to guess you're exaggerating the running part a bit.

Sorry to hear it wasn't a love connection. Her loss buddy.

PS - I still can't get over that they all live in a hotel. Pretty ritzy. What are they? All soap opera characters or something?

Jay said...

Ouch dude. I hope you have since taken to stalking her on MySPace.

Fitter Happier said...

I think that was the funniest blog I've ever laid eyes upon. Kudos my friend!

Mighty Dyckerson said...

Christ. Next time at least squeeze a tit or something!

Becky said...

Listen. There is no excuse for jean shorts. I told you this a million times. And no, it doesn't matter if you sew a "Joe Cool" snoopy patch on the butt. Burn them and dance around the fire like rumplestilskin did after they guessed his name!!!

0000 said...

this post was delicious. but denim shorts are not.

but even more delicious is that you're blogging again so I'll forget the shorts on this one. (Capris? Manpris?)

yll said...

Did you flail your arms when you ran away? B/c that's key. If you did, then you'll get a phone call back; b/c that's hot.